


all the ashes in my wake

by superoverdramatic



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Pregnancy, R Plus L Equals J, Resurrection, Slow Burn, fuck the north, i;m still mad at jon, so idk about jonerys for now, started as a one shot oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superoverdramatic/pseuds/superoverdramatic
Summary: Somewhere in Volantis, the Lord of Light breathes life back into Daenerys Targaryen.Somewhere North of The Wall, Jon Snow mourns.Somewhere in Westeros, an old evil stirs, ready to consume all Seven Kingdoms, and then the rest of the world.my attempt to salvage something from the wreckage of season 8





	1. Chapter 1

Dany comes to engulfed in a heat so intense, she fears that maybe, _just maybe_ , this will be the time that she finally burns. Her eyes open and she’s surrounded by flames on every side, clothes burned to ash and hair free of her usual intricate braids. Her mouth opens in a gasp. The heat is too much. This is more than ordinary fire.

She pushes up slowly, bracing herself against the scorched earth beneath her. The stream of fire halts as she moves, and she looks up, directly into the distressed gaze of her last remaining son. Despite her confusion, Daenerys draws her knees beneath her body and reaches a hand up to Drogon. His head drops low, offering his snout to her to stroke. She winces as she moves, feeling a tight pull in her chest. She glances down at her body, a sickening feeling settling in her stomach at the sight of the raw wound above her breast, stark red against her pale skin.

So it had happened.

King’s Landing had fallen. She had killed thousands of innocents. Tyrion had betrayed her. _Jon Snow_ had betrayed her.

“He’s a smart creature, your dragon.”

Dany’s head whips around. Drogon’s fire still burns in a circle around her, the flames as tall as any man. A woman steps out of the darkness, illuminated by the blaze. She looks familiar despite the shadows dancing across her face. Her hands are folded in front of her, holding something dark against her stomach.

“Who are you?”

“High Priestess Kinvara, Your Grace.” Dany finally notices her dress, blood-red silk brushing the stony ground, and the large crimson gem that hangs around her neck.

“I know you?”

The woman shakes her head. “We almost met once, a long time ago. In Meereen.”

A memory comes to Dany, Tyrion speaking of a Red Priestess who came to them in the Great Pyramid. Daenerys takes in her surroundings, They’re high on the side of a rocky mountain. Down below, the lights of a city twinkle in the distance.

“What happened?”

“Your Grace, it may be better if we find a more private place to speak.” Kinvara shoots a furtive look over her shoulder. “There are many who could be listening to us. It isn’t safe to talk here.” The priestess steps forward and the flames part for her as she approaches Dany. Kinvara extends a slender hand for Daenerys to take. “Please come with me.”

Dany hesitates for a moment, but at the woman’s encouraging smile, she reaches up to clasp the proffered hand, allowing the priestess to help her stand on shaky feet. Kinvara takes most of Dany’s weight as she staggers. Drogon make a noise above them, chirruping sweetly and Dany can’t help but smile at her son. She squints at the distant landscape.

“We’re in Essos?” Dany gasps. The city spreads across the desert below them, and Dany is shocked at how far her son has brought her.

“Just outside of Volantis, My Queen. It seems your son knew exactly where to bring you.”

Her muddled thoughts suddenly right themselves and Dany is slammed with the weight of her memories. She drops her eyes to her hands in her lap, focussing intently on them, in part to avoid the priestess’ gaze, and also to remind herself that she’s here. She’s alive.

“You know about what happened in Westeros?” Dany looks

Kinvara only nods.

“How long has it been since…” Dany trails off.

“News of King’s Landing’s fall reached us here just a few days ago. I’ve been preparing for your arrival since, Your Grace.”

“You knew that Drogon would bring me here?”

Again, Kinvara looks around nervously. “We need to discuss all of these things, but this is not the place for it, Your Grace.”

A chill runs down Dany’s spine and she realises with a jolt that she’s still naked.

“I don’t suppose you brought any clothes with you?”

Kinvara smiles and draws Dany from the now smouldering patch of land, letting her go so as to unfurl the dark fabric in her hand. It’s a cloak, dark, thick and long enough to brush the ground. Dany steps in close and Kinvara drapes the heavy fabric across her shoulders.

The uneven landscape proves a greater struggle for Dany in her weakened state and with nothing between the rough ground and her bare feet. Her knees buckle almost as soon as she takes an unaided step towards Kinvara.

“If I may, Your Grace?” the priestess inclines her head. “Perhaps your dragon could provide us some transport? In your…condition, it may prove easier and faster than walking.”

Dany turns to look at her last remaining child, whose eyes are fixed firmly on her. She extends her arm, reaching for him, and with thundering footfalls, Drogon ambles closer to them, lowering his shoulder at Dany’s feet. Kinvara helps her up onto his back, settling behind Daenerys once she's situated.

“ _Sōvēs_ ,” Dany calls, and Drogon takes off in a run, flapping his wings to lift his body into flight.

Dany always appreciates the marvel of flying on the back of a dragon. Not many get to see the world from the sky, and it’s always exhilarating to watch the land below speed quickly by. However, in her current state, she’s almost too drained to even keep a solid hold on the dragon’s back.

Drogon stays high enough in the sky to remain unseen from the ground as they pass over Volantis. Kinvara squeezes Dany’s arm from behind, nodding silently after just a few minutes in flight. Dany assumes that she wants to land and, despite her weak grip, tries her best to direct her son. Drogon clearly picks up on her weakened state and is much more pliable to her will, dropping down to the ground in wide circles. As they descend, Dany realises that the lights of the city don’t really extend here. In fact, she doesn’t see the building beneath them until Drogon lands atop it, digging his claws into the stone walls.

“We kept the temple dark tonight so that we wouldn’t alert anyone when you arrived, My Queen.”

Dany barely hears Kinvara over the roaring in her ears. She feels strange, like she’s been stuffed back into her body wrong.

Kinvara slides off Drogon’s back first; the dragon has landed beside a balcony and she drops onto it with ease. The priestess reaches up to help Dany down. She’s barely able to remain on her feet, leaning heavily against Kinvara and relying on her to guide them into the building. Every step feels like she’s wading through water, and her skin prickles as if Drogon is still blowing a stream of flame at her.

Where the outside is dark and seems almost abandoned, the inside of the building is a marvel, ceilings almost as high as in the Great Pyramid. Dany is too faint to feel awed, however, stumbling over her own feet. The halls are lined with torches, and the dancing flames create eerie shifting shadows. Maybe she isn’t dead, but Dany certainly feels like she’s entered into some form of hell.

Dany is barely standing by this point, weakened legs trembling as they struggle to hold her up. Her chest burns where Jon plunged his knife into her heart. Her head is spinning. She needs to sit, just for a moment. She’ll be able to think straight if she can just sit down.

“If it pleases Your Grace to remain here in our temple, there are rooms where you can rest.”

It’s as if Kinvara can read her mind. Dany nods and the woman helps guide her deeper into the belly of the building, past shadowy walls, lit by more flickering torchlight. The hallways are long, stretching so far that Dany can’t see where they end, and the women’s footfalls echo in the cavernous temple, even the more muted slaps of Dany’s naked feet.

Just as Daenerys is sure that she can’t go further, that she’s about to collapse onto the hard ground, they come to a set of rooms. One of the doors is open and light spills out into the hall. The women enter, and Dany exhales a rough breath at the sight of the large bed in the corner of an otherwise rather plain room. There are no unique carvings in here, just plain stone walls. Across the room from the bed is a lit fireplace, but otherwise the space is empty.

Kinvara leads her over, finally letting her go when Dany is close enough to the flat surface of the mattress. Dany drops onto the bed in an almost undignified manner, legs screaming for her to get off them. She sinks into the plush material, the first soft thing that she’s encountered since she awoke.

“Wait here, Your Grace. I’ll return soon.” Kinvara melts into the shadows and is gone.

* * *

Jon doesn’t sleep anymore.

When he closes his eyes, he sees corpses lining the streets of Kings Landing, blackened and twisted, smells burnt flesh and hair, feels blood coating his hands.

When he closes his eyes, he sees pillars of fire turning stone to dust.

When he closes his eyes, he sees hair as white as snow, creamy skin, blue eyes that stare into his soul. Except he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have one of those anymore.

The wildlings have set up camp in a forest clearing, and he hears movement outside his tent. The smell of food wafts inside and his stomach clenches painfully. It’s been days since he ate and kept something down. His punishment. If she can’t eat, why should he be able to?

Jon digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing away the gritty feel of exhaustion. His head throbs and he can’t think straight. He just wants to be alone, to mourn and cry for the love that he’s lost. Again.

The flap of his tent is pulled back suddenly and someone steps into the space.

“You need to eat something, Little Crow.”

Tormund’s gruff rasp, usually a comfort, grinds against his frayed nerves.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m not your mother, and I’m not going to make you eat, but what good are you if you collapse in the snow from starvation?”

Jon rubs harder at his eyes, trying to alleviate the pain that smarts behind them.

“You can’t starve in two days.”

“There’s food. Why not eat?”

Jon finally looks up, glaring at his friend whose wide body seems to take up all the space in the tent. “I thought you said you weren’t my mother?”

Tormund’s grin is wide, unrestrained, as he walks to Jon’s bed and drops onto the end of it.

“Thinking about your dragon queen?”

Jon stiffens.

“Don’t.” His voice is low, quivering with rage and sorrow and heartbreak. Tormund holds his hands up in surrender. They sit in silence for a moment before Tormund pipes up again.

“So you’re just going to roll over and die?” No response. “A fucking Crow ‘til the end, hm?”

Jon almost loses his cool, feeling his hands clenched into a fist. Longclaw is on the other side of the room, otherwise he might be tempted to run his friend through with it. His dagger is–

–still buried in Dany’s chest. Jon feels the simmering rage drain from his body as he remembers the trail of blood running from her nose and mouth, or the deep red stain left on the floor of the throne room even after Drogon had carried Daenerys away from him.

“I’m not in the mood, Tormund.”

His friend kicks out at Jon’s leg, knocking the toe of his boot into Jon’s ankle.

“Be a man, Snow. You killed her. Your dragon queen is dead. There’s no use crying over—” Tormund never finishes, sentence cut short when Jon stands and, in a single agile move, turns, grabs the leather straps holding Tormund’s heavy winter garb together, and pulls him in close, inches from his face.

“I’ve warned you once. I won’t say it again.” Their silence is tense, and Jon feels his headache worsen where his teeth are clenched tightly. Tormund reaches up, grasping Jon’s wrists, and pulls them forcefully from his person.

“I’ll give you that one, Snow.” He gets to his feet and makes for the opening of the tent. “Eat or don’t, but if you’re going to lie down and die, go into the woods or something so I don’t have to fucking watch.”

* * *

Dany feels empty, like someone’s taken a spoon to her insides and hollowed her out. The wound in her chest burns, and she’s acutely aware of it, but she wouldn’t say that it hurts. In fact, now that she’s sitting down, she feels no physical pain at all.

But where her physical senses seem to be muted, her emotions have only heightened. Her stomach churns as she recalls her last moments. Jon, calling her his queen, kissing her, _stabbing her_. Killing her.

She wonders if this is how he felt when he was brought back.

She had thought that his declaration was just another way of proclaiming his love for her. She was wrong.

Just like Tyrion, Varys and any number of men before him, he saw her as nothing more than a game piece to be played. She wasn’t a woman to him, nor a person at all. He used her for her military capabilities in taking back the country, and then executed her when he was done.

Tears rise in her eyes. She _died._ At the hands of a man she loved. The only man she had ever truly, completely loved, of her own volition and without restraint. She barely swallows the urge to vomit, stumbling from her place on the plush bed to throw up into a chamber pot across the room. She hadn’t eaten for days before she travelled to King’s Landing, so all that comes up is acidic bile.

She’s lost everything, two of her sons, her closest friends and advisors, her crown. She can still see Missandei’s head fly from her body, or the light in Ser Jorah’s eyes dim until there is none left. All for a man who used her up and spat her out. She supposes she can’t blame him. He protected his family and his home, as any king should.

The way she did not.

She wonders, as she retches violently into the bowl housing the contents of her stomach, whether he sits comfortably on the throne. Her throne. Whether the crown fits over his unruly curls.

_Queen of Nothing. Queen of the Ashes._

She wishes she had stayed dead.

After what feels an age, her stomach finally settles. She takes a few more minutes, until she sure that it won’t revolt again, Dany covers the pot and pushes it away from herself, nearly crawling across the cold marble floor and back to her previous position. She has no strength to pull herself back up, and instead remains on the ground and leans her head against the side of the bedframe.

It could be mere minutes or hours later when she jolts awake at the sound of footsteps entering the room. Kinvara appears in the doorway first, mysterious smirk still on her lips and a small stack of clothes in her hands. She’s followed by three more figures clad in red, two priests and another priestess. Kinvara drops to her knees beside Dany, stroking a gentle hand against her hair.

“Your Grace, I’ve brought you some fresh clothes. Do you feel well enough to dress?”

Dany nods weakly, reaching for the pile and placing it in her lap. She grips the front of the cloak, holding it closed as she glances suspiciously at the new faces in the room.

“Will you explain what’s going on now?” She turns her gaze to Kinvara, blinking away the rapidly building tears. “I was dead.”

The priestess’ lips quirk up in that same infuriating smirk. “Yes, you were.”

“And now I’m not. How?”

“A ritual. Fire and blood. The Lord of Light was not yet done with you.”

“Why? What does your lord want from me?”

“He directed your dragon here, to deliver to us the Prince that was Promised.”

Dany frowns. “Melisandre of Ashai said that I was the Prince that was Promised. That I would fulfil the prophesy.”

Kinvara glances at the other priests.

“You are not Azor Ahai, Daenerys of House Targaryen. Melisandre spoke falsely.”

Dany slumps.

“It’s Jon Snow, isn’t it? He’s the true Prince?”

Again, Kinvara shakes her head. “Of course not, My Queen. Azor Ahai is with you now.”

“I don’t understand. I am not the Prince that was Promised, but I have him with me? Where?” Dany is trying not to get irritated with the cryptic way this woman speaks. _Isn’t it easier to just say what you mean?_

“Your child, My Queen. Azor Ahai is the child inside your womb.”

Dany’s pale skin blanches at least two shades whiter. Her mouth drops open and all she can do is gape at Kinvara.

“My…child?”

“The blood of the Wolf and the Dragon. You carry Azor Ahai in your womb.”

“ _Jon Snow_ is the blood of the Wolf and the Dragon. His parents are Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I _can’t_ have children.”

Kinvara finally gets up, moving away from Daenerys and draws her fellow priests into a tight circle where they speak in hushed tones. Dany, meanwhile, presses her hand to her stomach, not daring to hope.

The witch’s prophecy was impossible to achieve. Of course she isn’t pregnant.

“Your Grace, who told you that you may not conceive?”

Dany grits her teeth against the painful memory. “A witch, many moons ago, who took my husband and son from me. She placed a curse that ensured that I would not have another child.”

Kinvara nods curtly, turning back to confer with the small group once again. Dany shifts uncomfortably, watching them. She supposes there’s a slight swell to her stomach, but that’s of no consequence. She doesn’t _feel_ pregnant – shouldn’t her child be moving? And what about—

“If I were pregnant, surely the child would be dead by now?”

Kinvara turns and all four priests and priestesses look up at Dany.

“An unborn baby cannot possibly survive when the mother is dead.” Dany’s voice sounds strange to her, thick and a little bit shrill. Her newly beating heart slams against her ribs and there’s a ringing in her ears that muffles all other sound in the room.

One of the male priests responds this time, stepping out from behind Kinvara. “The Lord of Light wills it, and so it is done. Your curse was broken upon your death. The sacrifice made by you and your dragons has paid for the life of the babe.”

Dany shakes her head, doing her best to quash the hope rising in her chest.

“Leave me. Please.”

The priests and priestesses hesitate, but with a fierce glare from Daenerys, they file from the room almost as silently as they came. Kinvara turns to look at Dany before she exits.

“Rest well, Your Grace. We still have much to discuss.”

Outside, somewhere in the west, the sun begins to rise.

* * *

“Riders!”

Jon emerges from his tent, squinting against the weak sunlight. In the distance, horses approach flying the Stark sigil. A sick feeling settles in his stomach and he hangs back when the riders dismount and enter the camp.

“Where is Jon Snow?”

Tormund steps up, his bulky size dwarfing the Stark bannerman who shrinks back against his horse. From somewhere behind his, Ghost appears, lips curled back in a snarl as he crouches low, ready to defend.

“What do you want with Snow?”

“His—his king demands an audience. We expected to find him at Castle Black, but it’s deserted.”

Jon finally steps into the clearing, dark eyes fixed on the scroll in the man’s hand.

“My king.” It’s more of a statement than a question, spoken with an air of exhaustion.

“King Bran requires you return to the capital to treaty at once.”

Jon reaches out a hand for the scroll, unrolling it when the messenger drops it into his gloved palm. He recognises Tyrion’s handwriting immediately, remembers seeing it on that first message inviting him to Dragonstone so long ago.

His hand clenches into a fist and he crumples the paper within it.

“Tell Lord Tyrion that I won’t be returning to King’s Landing. Ever.”

“Lord Snow—”

“I am no Lord.”

The man swallows roughly. “Jon Snow, it’s what your king demands of you.”

“I cannot return to that city, Ser.” He lets the message drop from his fingers onto the snowy ground. “I _will_ not.”

* * *

Dany stands naked beside her bed, hand pressed to her stomach as she stares down the line of her body.

There’s certainly a slight roundness to her belly, but that could be from anything. It’s hardly conclusive evidence. She can’t possibly be pregnant. Her womb is dead, barren, and the only children she’ll ever have are her dragons.

_Dragon. Singular._

She swallows the sting of tears again, crossing into the adjoining room where a tub of steaming water waits for her. Dany sinks into the bath, holding back a moan as the heat sinks into her bones. For the first time since her resurrection, Daenerys Targaryen feels warm.

She leans her head back, nothing but the distant sounds of an awakening city to keep her company.

_Missandei used to fill the room with conversation as she bathed._

Dany’s eyes fly open. The wave of grief floods over her, stealing her breath away.

_My friend. My last true friend._

She wishes she could go back in time and remove Cersei’s head from her shoulders just as she had done to her dearest friend from Naath. Dany feels the darkness creeping into her veins again, the numbness from each one of her losses. She wants to rage at the thought that all of those who believed in her and died for her, Jorah, Barristan, Missandei, were all proven wrong by her actions in King’s Landing. They all died for nothing. She turned out to be worse than all the monsters who came before her.

Her stab wound throbs. Dany looks down and notices that the once puckered skin has opened up, blood running in a single thin rivulet into the bath water.

It’s only fitting that her heart should bleed.


	2. Chapter 2

Daenerys cries for hours after she’s left alone, finally falling into a fitful sleep when the sun begins turning the sky blue. Her dreams are no place for respite, however, poisoned by her tumultuous emotions.  

_A flash of steel. A baby crying. Fire. Her son shot out of the sky. Jorah and Missandei, lifeless eyes trained on her. A raven with three eyes. An army of dead men marching, lead by a dead queen with white hair and blue eyes._

She wakes with a jolt, sweat beading at her brow. The heat of the climate is jarring, almost suffocating after nearly a year spent in the much milder Dragonstone and then the frigid North. Dany peels the lightweight bedsheets off her legs, pushing up from her pillows. She draws in a shaky breath, pressing a hand against her chest where her heart thuds painfully against her ribs. The knife wound throbs beneath her fingers and she quickly pulls her palm away.

_Just for a moment, I wish to forget._

She swallows thickly, shutting her eyes to hold back more tears. Her entire body trembles. Her nightmares flash behind her eyes. Daenerys forces them open, focussing, again, on her hands. She watches them shake, watches her fingers twitch and curl, and reassures herself that she’s alive. It takes a while for her to calm down, but she follows the lines on her palms and, eventually, finds that she can breathe a little easier.

There’s a knock at the door and she finally looks up. A servant girl enters the room. She’s small, a short, skinny little thing with a riot of curls atop her head. Her brown hands are tightly gripping the sides of a food tray. She looks so much like a young Missandei that Dany almost calls out to her. She probably would, if not for the girl’s eyes, deep brown irises wary and full of distrust. In all their time together, Missandei had never looked at her like that. It’s painful to look at the child, knowing that were her friend alive, that same look might live in her own eyes after all Daenerys has done. Maybe Missandei shouldn’t have trusted her so wholeheartedly; perhaps she would have kept her head if she’d seen the truth of who Daenerys Targaryen really is. She’s the exact type of monster that her friend should have run from.

The girl stares at Daenerys for a moment too long, frozen in the doorway. Just as Dany opens her mouth to speak, she darts into the room, giving Dany a wide berth as she drops the tray on the table at the foot of the bed and runs from the room. Daenerys sighs, swinging her feet onto the cool floor.

_I don’t have love here. I only have fear._

Dany approaches the food with caution, eyeing the generous servings of fruit with suspicion. Her stomach clenches violently, desperate for sustenance, but Dany can’t bring herself to eat. The last time anyone brought her food, it was laced with poison. She doesn’t know who to trust anymore, anyone could be trying to kill her. They’ve already succeeded once. 

“You have nothing to fear from us, Your Grace.”

Dany jumps, turning to see the priestess Kinvara standing in the centre of her room, as if appearing from thin air, hands folded in front of her and expression as mild as ever.

“The Lord of Light brought you here to return your breath to your lungs, not to take it from you.”

Daenerys turns back to the food, reaching out a tentative hand to pluck a grape from it’s stem. She examines it for a moment longer before she can’t resist sliding it between her lips. Her starving body rejoices, and it’s all she can do to take a seat at the table before she’s snatching up a pomegranate and tearing it open with her hands. Juice runs down her wrists as she digs into the fruit with her teeth. The sweet flavour dances across her tongue and she can’t stifle the moan that builds in her throat. She’s done before she knows it, reaching out in her haze for another fruit, this time an orange, which she pulls apart in a similar manner and sets to work on.

“Your Grace.”

Dany feels her skin heat with embarrassment when she realises Kinvara is still in the room. She licks the sticky juice from her skin, embarrassed by her lack of decorum, and clambers to wipe the juice smeared across her face. The priestess is smiling softly, if a little pityingly, at her.

“We think it’s time to continue our conversation.”

The same three priests from the previous night walk into the room as she speaks, flanking Kinvara on both sides. Dany swallows her mouthful, dropping the rest of the orange onto the tray with a wet slap.

“I’m not sure what more there is to say. I was cursed by a witch a long time ago never to bear children. I’ve lain with two men since that time, and never become pregnant.”

“Your Grace, we—”

“Please just call me Daenerys.” She shakes her head, shifting uncomfortably at the moniker. “I’m not a queen anymore.”

“But—”

“Please.”

Kinvara hesitates, but eventually nods her head at Dany’s beseeching expression.

“Daenerys. We aren’t here to talk about your child.” Kinvara sits gracefully in the chair opposite Dany, drawing it closer to the table. “You liberated the Seven Kingdoms, and they have been delivered into the hands of a ruler much worse than any Lannister or Baratheon usurper.”

“Jon Snow—” she cuts herself off, swallowing her distaste. “Aegon Targaryen doesn’t rule in my stead?”

Kinvara shakes her head, a curl escaping from her half-restrained hairstyle and bouncing against her forehead.

“Brandon Stark was named King of the Six Kingdoms and the North was granted independence. Jon Snow was banished to The Wall.”

Dany wants to scream. The man who refused the title of Lord of Winterfell is now King?

“The Iron Islands? Dorne?”

“They remain under the crown, Your– Daenerys.”

“So the Starks rule the whole of Westeros.” Dany would laugh if she weren’t so angry. “Of course.”

Any hope that she held that maybe, _just maybe_ , Jon Snow had truly loved evaporates in this moment. After begging him not to reveal his true parentage, not only for fear of her claim but for her own life, he’d delivered her kingdom into the hands of those who’d done nothing but conspire against her. His true family. She was the one who made all the difficult choices and sacrifices needed to win the war, but in the end was nothing more than a means to solve the issues of the Night King and Cersei, she and her armies a shield to hide behind until the greater threats were dealt with and they could be discarded. She supposes she should feel grateful that he was at least punished for his treason, but the small victory tastes bitter in her mouth.

“What of the Unsullied?”

“They sailed for Naath, Daenerys.”

Dany feels her anger evaporate almost instantly, and tears well in her eyes. _Make her proud, Torgo Nudho._

“And Tyrion Lannister?”

“He’s…Hand of the King.”

Dany’s heart cracks in two. Another man that she’d foolishly thought cared for her. A lesser man whom she’d trusted to advise her well, who’d used her to further his own agenda and make a play for power when he thought her too difficult to manipulate. _How much betrayal can a single human take?_ Outwardly, she settles for a simple nod, looking down at her lap.

“Queen Daenerys.” She looks up at the priest who addresses her. “The Lord of Light needs you to finally rid the world of an old evil. That is the reason you were brought back.”

“The Night King was defeated. His army has fallen. What more can I give your Lord of Light?” She may not be a queen, but she is still the dragon and her anger is palpable.

“The Night King did fall, yes, but he is not the only evil to plague the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I’m not returning to Westeros.” Dany feels like a petulant child as she crosses her arms over her chest, but she refuses to budge.

“Please, Daenerys.” Kinvara reaches out for Dany’s hands that lay limply against the flat table top. “There’s more at stake here than just the crown. The World of Men is in danger with every moment that we let the Three-Eyed Raven sit on the throne.”

“Bran Stark?”

“What used to be Brandon Stark. What he is now…” Kinvara shudders and, for a moment, her face shows real fear. “Should he retain absolute power over Westeros, all that live there will perish.”

“Why are you telling me this? Didn’t you hear that I’m the Mad Queen? That I burned down King’s Landing and killed thousands? Why should I care?”

“Because now that he has Westeros, it’s only a matter of time before he comes for us all.” Kinvara’s eyes are wide and her grip on Dany is tight.

“Tell me, Daenerys Targaryen, why did you destroy Kings Landing?”

Dany looks up at the other priestess as she speaks. Her voice is sweet, high and young. Just another deception, though, as her question cuts Daenerys to the quick.

“I don’t—”

“Did you plan to burn the citizens of the city that day? Or was it an impulsive decision?”

Dany remembers sitting atop Drogon, looking at the Red Keep, fighting with herself on what to do. The bells were so loud, throwing her thoughts into disarray, confusing her. She was losing the fight within herself. If the bells could just stop for a second, _just one second— just a second to think._

And then she was in the air.

She shuts her eyes, feeling the tears that she’s held at bay finally escape and run down the swell of her cheeks.

“I don’t know.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. The memories are suffocating.

“But you do, My Queen.”

“Please don’t call me that.” The lump in her throat is so tight that it hurts to swallow.

“Think back. You had won the war. You wanted to root Cersei out of the Red Keep and punish her for what she took from you. Not kill the smallfolk. Not harm innocents.”

Dany’s head is spinning again, the painful memories too fresh. “Stop.”

“Cast your mind back to the moments before. You fought with yourself. It felt like you were losing control.” The priestess continues to push, advancing closer as she speaks.

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“We’ve seen it in the flames, Daenerys Stormborn. We saw you atop your dragon. We saw you with eyes as white as snow.”

That catches Dany off guard, and she looks up into the woman’s earnest gaze. “White eyes?”

_The only people whose eyes become white are wargs._

“I’ve never had the power to warg.”

“No, but the man who was once Brandon Stark can warg into any man, woman or beast that he chooses.”

Dany feels her skin crawl.

“You’re saying…that the Three-Eyed Raven _warged_ into me and took control of my body?”

“You couldn’t have known what was happening. You were still in your body, just no longer in control.”

Dany shakes her head. “No. I did it. I alone burned King’s Landing. I take the responsibility. I am the Mad Queen.”

“So why did this ‘madness’ pass the moment the city was destroyed? Did you feel mad when you entered the throne room?”

Dany pauses.

“What about when Jon Snow plunged his knife into your chest? Did you feel mad then?”

Daenerys still feels the cold bite of metal as it cuts into her and steals the life from her lungs. She still sees the tears in Jon Snow’s eyes as she collapses to the ground. Those moments are as clear to her as if they happened just yesterday. But the decision to burn Kings Landing to the ground? To ignore the Red Keep and allow Cersei the chance to flee?

_It makes no sense._

“I…” She doesn’t know what to say.

“We couldn’t talk about this on the mountain because his Sight is too vast. The Temple of R’hollor is the only place protected from the Raven.” Kinvara speaks up again.

Dany snatches her hands away, fixing her eyes on them as she drops them into her lap where they shake violently.

 _I’m here, I’m alive, I’m here, I’m alive._ She feels violated, knowing that someone was in her body, taking control from her. She was a queen. No one was ever meant to do that to her again.

“Why? Why would he do this?”

“With the Targaryen dynasty finally destroyed, who can ever challenge his rule?” Kinvara’s tone is grave. “If all power corrupts, Daenerys Targaryen, then what must become of the most powerful being the World of Men has ever known?”

Dany goes cold.

* * *

Tyrion Lannister used to think he was the smartest man in all of Westeros. In games of politics and strategy, he was always ten steps ahead of his peers.

Until he served as Hand to the Queen for Daenerys Targaryen.

He tried, oh how he tried his best to keep everyone alive. He thought that if he could just temper Daenerys and appeal to Cersei’s sense of family, he could end the war without unnecessary bloodshed. He could keep his loyalty to his queen and still not cause the final death of his house.

And protect his brother.

Tyrion wants to curl into a ball and weep like a babe at the thought of his Jaime’s body crushed beneath the ruins of The Red Keep, entwined with his sister even in death. Or the body of his queen, the woman he loved, with a knife in her heart. He’s glad he didn’t have to see that. It might have been too much to bear.

With the benefit of hindsight, Tyrion knows that he would never have been able to save Cersei. She was too far gone to ever consider surrender. But Daenerys…he certainly could and should have served her better, given her better advice. If only he hadn’t been blinded by love, for his queen and his family, maybe he could have prevented the attack on King’s Landing. In fact, looking back, he wishes that he’d let her follow her first instincts, to fly to The Red Keep and burn the cursed building to the ground. The city would have been spared, and the Daenerys that he used to know, the one he believed in, would have ascended to the throne, just as she’d deserved.

But now here he is, back where he started in King’s Landing as Hand to a king that he’s not sure how to serve. He takes a little comfort knowing that Bran Stark will at least be a better ruler than Joffrey ever was.

If Tyrion’s wits were about him, he’d feel a prickle of awareness as someone watches him closely from outside the room. He’d notice Brandon Stark slip into the shadows and vanish down the hall. And he’d definitely notice that the King is walking on his own two legs.

* * *

At some point in the night, Jon gives up on sleep, choosing instead to leave his tent and wander from the wildling camp into the surrounding trees of the forest. He hears footfalls behind him and turns to see Ghost trotting to catch up. A small smile pulls at the corners of Jon’s lips as he waits for the direwolf to fall into step before he continues on his way. His boots crunching through the frozen foliage are loud in the otherwise unnerving stillness of the night.

His thoughts are relentless, memory after memory of Daenerys on Dragonstone, such a big attitude contained in such a slight body.

Of seeing her as more than just the Dragon Queen.

Of dining with her in the evenings and strategising with her over the Painted Table.

Of breaking through the stoic, queenly facade that was Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, chipping away at her shields until she was just his Dany.

Of loving her on that ship. Of loving her every day since.

Of his blade buried deep into her heart, betrayed eyes locked with his own as the life drained from her body and onto the ash-covered floor of The Red Keep.

He wishes, even in that final moment, that he’d made a different choice. Maybe he had to end things. Maybe she truly had gone mad. But even in that second when he grasped the kilt of his knife, he wishes that he’d had the wherewithal not to stab her in the heart. He remembers all too well what it feels like for someone you trust to stab you in the heart and look you in the eye as you die. He wishes he’d spared her that pain.

He and Ghost come upon another clearing after a while of walking. Whilst the place where the wildlings have set up camp looks almost untouched by the army of the dead who marched through here not long ago, this area has been ravaged. There’s a stump in the centre, and something has hacked the tree to pieces. Branches and chunks of tree bark litter the ground, and deep grooves have been carved into the half-frozen earth in a shape that spirals out from the remnants of the tree. Jon notices with a start that the stump is bone white and the few leaves still clinging to the remnants of the scattered branches are blood red. It’s a weirwood tree.

Jon approaches slowly, tracing the jagged edges of the ruined wood with the tip of his finger. It’s much smaller than the one at Winterfell, but a jolt of homesickness runs through him all the same. He hears Ghost snuffling behind him, but can’t draw his gaze away from the hacked remnants of this holy tree. It feels like fate has drawn him here to this place, so that he can finally atone for his sins.

Jon Snow hasn’t prayed in a long time. After he died, he was sure that he didn’t believe in anything. But in this moment, he prays with everything he can that wherever Dany is, she’s safe. Protected. Happy. All the things he failed to give her.

In the distance, screams of terror pierce the night.

Jon turns, staring wide-eyed at Ghost for a moment before he takes off, running back in the direction of the wildling camp. He pushes his body as fast as it can go, sprinting through the woods and jumping over fallen branches and roots that litter the forest floor. He curses himself, ducking under low-hanging tree limbs, finally emerging from the forest to find the camp on fire.

“ _Tormund!_ ” He races forward, pushing against the crowd of wildlings who are running in the opposite direction, toward the tree line. People shove him out of the way and the flames lick towards the sky. Everything is chaos.

Then he hears it.

The scrape of metal as swords are drawn and the screams as people are cut down and slain. The sounds of fighting are coming from all around and Jon can’t see past the fire, can’t see if his friend is alive or if everyone has gotten free of the camp.

Jon turns in the direction people were running, drawing Longclaw as the screams of the wildlings grow louder.

In the shadows of the trees, lines of soldiers clad in Stark armour swing their weapons at the women and children as they flee the burning camp. Tormund is at the front lines, swinging his axe and fists at anyone within striking distance, roaring with rage as he dismembers their assailants. Jon jumps in with no hesitation, swinging his blade and beheading two men in one fierce stroke. Ghost springs into action, running into the trees. Screams of pain echo from the darkness not long after. Jon continues to fight, Longclaw gleaming with blood as he and the remaining wildlings pick through the band of attacking soldiers until there is but one remaining.

“Wait!” Jon steps forward before Tormund can bring his axe down on the man’s head, grasping him by the neck and pressing him against a tree. “What do you want?”

The man sputters in his grasp, face turning a violent shade of red and then purple. Eventually, Jon lets him drop and he falls to his knees wheezing painfully. Jon uses the tip of Longclaw to tilt his head up.

“What do you want?” His voice is low and dangerous as he repeats the question, and the soldier’s eyes go wide. Framed by the flames of the camp and with the shadows cast along the angles of his face, he looks _unhinged_.

“The king sent us to execute all the wildlings. He said no one should remain.” The soldier is shaking, fear causing him to piss his pants. “Please, My Lord, have mercy.”

Jon pauses, retracting the blade from beneath his chin. And swings it back down forcefully. The soldier’s head rolls away from his body, staining the snow with his blood.

“Consider this mercy.”

Somewhere behind the trees, a black shadow descends from the skies and lights the world with fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the reaction to my silly, rambling fic has been so kind, thank you all so much!! Updates may come a bit slowly as I just had surgery, but I’ve got the whole thing planned out and still have a few more chapters written, so hopefully I can keep up with it.  
> I’m not trying to absolve Dany of responsibility from her actions, but honestly the whole thing was such a 180 to me, I can’t see any reasoning other than she was not in control of her actions. I have to disagree with the assertion that she was always a tyrant or that killing literal slavemasters was a gateway for her to start burning hundreds of thousands of innocents. It wasn't, and as a black woman I was actually offended by that line of reasoning and the writers using Tyrion as a mouthpiece for such a garbage take. Slave owners get no sympathy here.  
> Dany only ever used her military power on people who used/upheld the wheel which left innocents subjugated, and she rarely ever offered no form of choice or compromise, so no amount of 'foreshadowing' was good enough for the sudden turn that the last two episodes took. They literally just retconned her arc as a way to tear down one of the biggest female icons in recent television and that’s gross to me.  
> I truly think Bran was the villain of the series- if he could see the future (e.g. knowing Jaime was on his way), then why not warn anyone of what was to come? Unless his agenda all along was to take power for himself? idk idk, anyway, until next time guys.


	3. Chapter 3

As Dany’s strength begins to return over the following days, she starts feeling increasingly restless. The Red Priestess has urged her to remain inside where the Three-Eyed Raven cannot use his Sight on her. She's forced to wander the halls of the temple in borrowed clothes, the filmy skirts of her dress dancing around her ankles. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and her feet remain bare. Even as she mourns, she’s never felt freer than she does now, without the weight of her house or the throne suffocating her.

She glances out the window, wondering not for the first time, where her son is. The dragon hasn’t been seen since the night she arrived in Volantis, and she misses the comfort of knowing that her child is safe and nearby.

_Speaking of which—_

Dany barely resists pressing her hand to her stomach. Although the priests and priestesses sounded so sure, she can’t allow herself to hope. If she, even for a moment, opens herself to the possibility that she’s pregnant, and it turns out to be a falsehood? Or something was to happen to the child?

Well, she’d never survive that final loss.

And then, of course, there’s the issue of the hypothetical child’s father. Jon Snow.

_No. Aegon Targaryen._

The man that she loved, Jon Snow, was nothing more than a fabrication. His entire identity was a lie, created by him, his true parents, the uncle who raised him.

_It was all a trick._

How can she give birth to the child of a man who executed her? Her feelings on the matter are a whirlwind. On one hand, she wants to hate the man, the traitor, who promised to love and serve her. On the other hand, she knows that it had been because of her own actions.

_Her actions? Or someone else’s? How does she separate what were her own thoughts from what was planted there by the Three-Eyed Raven? Was it all him, or was some of the responsibility her own? And how does she reconcile that with the fact that Jon Snow handed the country over to his siblings, instead of breaking the wheel like they’d planned?_

Dany is so caught up in her thoughts that she doesn’t realise that she’s pressed the flat of her palm to the gentle swell of her belly.

* * *

Queen in the North. It’s everything that she’s ever wanted. To be powerful. To be in charge. To be the one leading rather than the one following.

And Sansa Stark is all alone.

Her family has all left the North. Arya is likely halfway across the world by now. Bran is King of the remaining Six Kingdoms. Jon is…well, she doesn’t know where exactly her older brother has gone.

_Cousin._

Reports that The Wall had been deserted reached Winterfell not long ago. She supposes she isn’t shocked. With no white walkers or wildlings to defend against and a gaping hole in the magical barrier, there isn’t any real way to ensure that anyone remains there. By the time Bran was able to warn of their desertion, Jon was likely long gone.

“My Queen.”

Sansa is jolted from her daydreaming by the deep voice that calls her from across the throne room. Lord Glover steps into the room, a hand pressed to his chest as he bows flamboyantly.

“My Lord.” Sansa’s tone remains cool at the sight of the traitorous lord. Were it up to her, she’d have had him executed the moment the war was won and the Night King had fallen. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been in charge then, and Jon had chosen to forgive the man for his desertion in their time of need. By the time she’d taken the throne, it would have done more harm than good to execute Glover, but she’d never forgive him for his cowardice. She’d never forget.

 The older man steps into the room, eyes darting to her Queensguard posted around the room as he approaches her. She can tell that her penetrating gaze makes him uncomfortable, and she almost relishes in the flush of his skin. Let him squirm.

“Your Grace, it’s been my utmost joy to see a trueborn Stark back on the throne, as your brother, Robb, was before you.”

Sansa bristles. “Do you mean to insinuate that Jon Snow was not a Stark?”

The man pales and stumbles over himself to rectify his mistake.

“N-no, Your Grace. Jon Snow was as much a Stark as your other siblings. I just mean to say—”

“So, you believe that he was an unfit king?” By this point, Sansa’s voice is downright frosty and her blue eyes glint with murderous intent.

“Of course not, Your Grace. I simply meant—”

“State your intentions, Lord Glover, I have much to do today.”

He gulps, but the relief on his face is clear as he scrambles to change the subject.

“Yes, of course.” He drops his hand from his chest, clasping both over his stomach, and clears his throat. “Well, Your Grace, as you know, I have a young son, just three years older than yourself. As our queen, I’m sure you intend to marry a northern boy and produce heirs to rule after you. I’ve come to propose a marriage between House Stark and Glover, who have been allies for generations. I’d be honoured if you were to consider my son as a match.”

Sansa can barely keep the disgust from her face, feeling her stomach roil at the thought of marrying to a family that did nothing to keep safe the very realm that they now want to rule. She opens her mouth to snap at him, laugh him out of Winterfell and back to his forsaken castle, but manages to catch herself in time. She’s a queen now, and she cannot afford to offend her allies, regardless of her feelings towards them.

“I’m…grateful for the offer, my lord.” He perks up, and Sansa can barely swallow her irritation. “However, I’m not yet considering marriage to anyone. The North is still a new kingdom and requires my undivided attention for now.”

“But, My Queen, isn’t it better that you marry a strong man to help shoulder the burden? A marriage so soon after being granted our independence will help bolster the North, and you’d have a King at your side to help make decisions.”

Sansa grits her teeth, so hard that she swears she hears one crack, and forces herself to hold her tongue.

_Your first act as Queen cannot be to behead an ignorant fool in the middle of the throne room._

Lord Glover continues to prattle on, too enamoured with the sound of his own voice to notice that Sansa has tuned him out. It’s strange that now that she’s queen, she can empathise a lot more with the Mother of Dragons. Things are much more different now that the army of the dead is defeated, but she thinks that she can understand the woman a bit better. Fighting for the respect of those around her, responsible for the lives of so many, taking back a country from an undeserving ruler. She wishes that she’d handled things better back then— given even an inch. Maybe things would be different now. Or maybe not.

During her years away from her home, and then trapped in it with a monster, Sansa has had many regrets. Trusting Littlefinger. Trusting the Lannisters. Leaving the North in the first place. But overshadowing all of these, now, is the regret that she betrayed an oath sworn to her brother in the godswood. While she had little love for Jon’s dragon queen, the fallout of her betrayal was so much worse than she had ever hoped. And now she’s living in a broken castle with no one around her that she fully trusts.

The bad memories in Winterfell are so much louder now that the halls are empty.

* * *

It’s been days of trekking through the forest before Jon and Tormund come upon the place where they saw the pillar of flames shoot into the sky. They instructed the remaining wildlings to keep moving towards one of the abandoned villages between The Wall and tthe remains of Hardhome. With most of their provisions destroyed, they would require shelter and a place to take refuge as soon as possible, and the two men could catch up to them quickly. Tormund insisted that he accompany Jon to see where the flames came from, leaving behind Ghost and strict instructions to his second to defend the remaining wildlings with his life.

It’s dark when the pair come out on the other side of the trees. Jon sucks in a sharp breath when the shadows seem to shift, and a familiar dragon emerges from the darkness.

Drogon’s huge yellow eyes stare at him, blinking slowly. The glow of the moon just barely lights the dragon’s face as he leans in close to Jon, lips curled up in a vicious snarl. For a long moment, Jon thinks that he’s finally come to finish the job that he’s started and roast him to a crisp.

“Snow.” Tormund’s half-whisper draws his attention, and he turns his head to his friend. The wildling man also has his eyes fixed on the black dragon, frozen in place. “Is that—”

Jon cuts him of with a sharp, jerky nod, turning back to the beast. Drogon’s nose is mere centimetres from Jon’s face and he can feel the heat radiating off the animal. As he’s sure it’s about to come to an end, Drogon turns away with a hot huff of air that almost throws Jon from his feet.

The dragon extends his neck, lowering his shoulder, and turns to look expectantly at Jon. He takes a small step backwards, and the dragon’s massive head swings around, teeth bared and the faintest tinge of fire building in the back of his throat.

“Snow, I think you’d better get on the fucking dragon.” Tormund’s voice is tight, and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. Jon holds himself as still as possible, holding his hands up as he keeps his gaze on the angry beast.

“What about everyone else? I can’t leave now.”

“We’ll manage. Better that than being roasted alive.”

Jon hesitates, doing his best to calm his racing heart. He steps slowly towards Drogon, who turns away, ducking his neck low to the ground again. 

Jon does his best to climb on gracefully, but Drogon is so much bigger than Rhaegal ever was. His legs are spread as wide as they can go, and he wonders how Dany was ever able to stay atop the great beast.

 _His Dany_.

Maybe Drogon will take him somewhere and eat him. He’d deserve it if he did.

The dragon’s massive head swings to look at Tormund and the wildling’s eyes go wide. He wants them both. Tucking his axe into the leather straps across his back, Tormund steels himself and climbs clumsily onto the dragon’s shoulder, gripping one of the spikes on Drogon’s scaly back and hauling himself up. He barely has a moment to settle before the dragon straightens up, and Jon quickly grabs hold of the horned flesh of his back.

_What do I hold onto?_

_Whatever you can._

With two heaving flaps of his wings, Drogon is airborne and they are leaving the icy North behind.

* * *

The feel of the wind is a comfort to Arya. She sits atop one of the many crates packed onto the ship, looking out across the vast blue of the ocean. Free of all the bad memories tied to land and the pressure of her last name, she can finally breathe easy on the water.

The ship glides across the sea, smooth and fast. She imagines this is what it must feel like to fly.

_Few souls still living know the answer to that._

Her mind turns to Jon. Her brother, who rode a dragon. Once King in the North turned—

—well she’s not sure what he is now. Either a traitor or a hero, depending on who you ask. She exhales a rough breath, picturing his face on the docks as they said goodbye. Maybe the last time they’ll ever see each other. Or any of her siblings, for that matter. She can’t imagine ever setting foot back in Westeros again.

The horrors that she’d seen in King’s Landing still linger in her dreams at night. She still hears the screaming, feels the heat of dragonfire just singing her skin as she runs for her life. It feels like even in her waking moments, she can’t escape the nightmare of that day.

Arya looks out across the miles of ocean stretching out in all directions. This is peace. Maybe she’s a coward, running from her family and the man she— well, maybe that makes her a fool, but the only place she gets any respite from the flames that haunt her is on the water. With so much of it surrounding her on all sides, she finally feels like she can breathe. And maybe her fear wasn’t just rooted in the events of that day, maybe she’s also running from a man whose name she can’t even bring herself to speak, but she had to go. She couldn’t be trapped in Winterfell, or even Storm’s End, while the rest of her family scattered across the country.

The shouts of her men draw her attention and Arya hops down from her perch. She runs to the front of the boat, grabbing at the captain.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t respond, instead pointing up high with a single weathered finger. Arya’s gaze follows the direction. Far above them, a lone dragon streaks across the skies.

* * *

The sight and smell of the bloody, charred corpse is enough to make Jon gag. Drogon tears into the unrecognisable remains of his feast, his entire maw coated in blood as he effortlessly crushes bones between his teeth. Jon leans away, pushing back on the grass. Drogon’s head snaps to him, and he snarls viciously. A warning.

The dragon deposited the men on the craggy rock hours ago, disappearing for a while to hunt. He’d returned with a mangled horse clamped between his teeth, dropping it at Jon’s feet, and started ripping it apart. Eventually, even Tormund’s stomach got the better of him, and he moved a short distance away. When Jon moved to follow, the dragon bristled and growled ferally. Any slight movement that Jon makes is enough to set the beast on edge. Still, he has no clue what the dragon wants or where it’s taking them. If Drogon wanted to kill him for what he’d done to his mother, Jon knows he’d be dead already, which means that there’s something else. Dragons don’t play games.

He wishes that the dragon would just kill him. He needs a reprieve from his torturous thoughts. But perhaps it would be too kind to end his life early. Perhaps he deserves to live the rest of his life without the woman he still loves. Even after days since he last held her, alive in his arms and pressing her lips to his own, he still feels her. The ache of missing her is as painful as if the bone that Drogon is gnawing on was his own leg.

Jon glances down just as the dragon swallows the last of his meal, rising slowly from his position and opening his bloody jaws in a thundering roar. He turns his eyes to where Tormund is stood, and the man comes stalking over with a muttered curse. Drogon lowers his shoulder in a clear invitation. Tormund goes up first, still swearing under his breath. Jon is quick to follow, not wanting to further irritate the impatient dragon.

They’re back in the air and over the ocean in what feels like mere moments. The water is vast, stretching out as far as Jon can see.

_This is the Narrow Sea?_

Drogon dives towards the surface of the water, and Jon lets out an inadvertent yell as his stomach swoops and drops. Drogon’s wings skim the waves, spraying his passengers with salt water. Jon grips Drogon’s horn tighter and clenches his thighs, doing his best not to slip as his scales become slicker.

By the time land dots the horizon, hours after they resumed flying, Jon’s hands are cramping and he’s not sure that he can hold on much longer. Drogon flies in a wide circle as they approach, avoiding the populous areas of the nearby city and keeping low to the sea. Jon examines the place as best he can at the speed and distance that they’re flying. It’s nothing like anywhere that he’s been before; not as spread out as the North, but nowhere near as tightly packed as King’s Landing.

The dragon starts to approach land, descending onto a small, isolated beach. Drogon’s heavy body and the flapping of his wings blows sand into Jon’s face. The impact is jarring, much bigger than his experience atop Rhaegal. Jon stretches his fingers from where they’re clamped around Drogon’s horn, climbing down from his back with a groan of relief. Tormund is not far behind, landing on both feet.

“I’m never getting back on one of these fucking things again.”

Jon snorts a laugh, stretching his limbs. He turns his head, looking around the small sandy beach, before facing Drogon.

“So, what now?” He knows the dragon can’t understand him, especially in the Common Tongue, but he seems to respond anyway, lifting his head to snort in the direction of a lone stone building which sits above the beach on the rocky edge of the island. A set of rough steps lead up to the street.

“So we’re taking directions from a dragon?”

Jon shrugs. “Well, we can’t just stand here all day.”

The wildling grunts, but follows Jon as he moves up the beach, kicking up sand. He realises that without the wind rushing past, it’s incredibly hot and moves to unclasp his cloak. Behind him, Tormund huffs with exertion, but when Jon turns, he’s stubbornly still wearing his full wildling garb.

They ascend the steps and round the building, looking for the front. The walls are a light stone, rising high into the sky and etched with intricate carvings. They look almost…magical. For a moment, Jon squints at one, struggling with a sense of familiarity. And then he realises where he’s seen it.

_The cave, with Daenerys, on Dragonstone._

The mark of the Night King? What would it be doing on this building in a far-away land? Tormund walks up behind him, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Alright, Snow?”

He nods, shaking off the strange feeling, and continues to the front of the building. A set of wide, red doors sit cracked open, facing the deserted street. Jon shoots a look at Tormund, and both place a hand over their weapons in preparation as they slip inside.

The early morning light struggles to penetrate the shadows in the vast structure, and the rows of torches on the walls are burnt out. A set of stairs leads up from the door to what Jon assumes is the Great Hall. It’s enormous, probably the biggest room he’s ever seen except the throne room in—

 _No._ He shakes his head, tamping down the memory, and gapes dumbly at the high ceilings, patterned windows and carved stone walls. It’s beautiful, the early morning light streaming through the windows here and bathing the room in colourful light. Tormund is not so impressed, huffing at the ostentatious design.

“Too many fucking stairs,” he grunts, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Hallways branch off the main room, dimmer than the hall where the windows are smaller. A young girl appears in one, staring wide eyed at them before disappearing.

“Wait!” Jon turns to Tormund, who nods once, and the pair take off after her. By the time they reach the spot that she’d stood in, the child has completely disappeared, leaving behind no sign of where she may have gone. Jon curses lowly.

“What do we do now?”

Jon throws up his hands, more than a little bit pissed off.

_Why did the dragon bring us to an empty building?_

He starts down the hallway and Tormund is quick to follow, heavy footsteps echoing in the wide open space. The hallway is lined by open doorways on one side, and the pair peer into each one as the pass by. Every room is deserted.

“What are we even looking for?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Tormund huffs out a small laugh, more of a snort, as the two come close to the end of the hall. Jon looks absentmindedly to his left, stopping abruptly when he notices that the room he’s looking into isn’t empty. The bed is covered in silky fabrics, fashioned into women’s dresses, and a woman is standing over them, pale hair falling in curls down a pale back. She’s wearing a gauzy blue thing, arms and back bare, and he can see her naked toes peeking out from beneath the hem that brushes the floor.

_She looks so much like—_

No. That’s nothing more than wishful thinking. He killed her. Her blood is on his hands. This woman cannot be—

She turns. His heart stops dead.

_“Daenerys.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so they reunite! Sorry for the long wait, life is just a bit crazy right now. I can't promise an exact upload schedule as I'm prepping for graduation and my health is a bit up and down, but I hope you guys will stick with me with this!! My rage with the season and love for Daenerys has not wavered in the weeks since GOT ended, but I'm only really able to write in the few free moments that I have. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed another installation of my garbage!


	4. Chapter 4

When Tyrion walks into the Small Council chamber, the King is sitting at the head of the table, eyes pure white. Tyrion sighs, smoothing the raven’s scroll between his fingers. Bran’s eyes abruptly roll forward, and he stares blankly at his Hand.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion starts uncomfortably, “word from Dorne and the Iron Islands.”

“They plan to revolt against the crown.”

Tyrion shifts on his feet, unnerved by the emotionless tone of Bran’s voice. Finally, he nods, sliding the missive onto the table. Bran makes no move to reach for it, gaze still fixed on Tyrion’s face.

“They seek their own independence, and vengeance for their queen’s murder.”

Tyrion isn’t sure how to respond, each sentence a statement rather than a question. How can he advise a man who knows everything?

“You can’t.”

He startles when the King responds to his unspoken question. Bran stares at Tyrion for an unnervingly long moment, expression as blank and uncaring as ever. Tyrion feels a fleeting spark of irritation and straightens up, smoothing his hands down the front of his jacket.

“Your Grace, we need to address the discontent before it becomes a full-fledged revolution.”

“Don’t worry about that, Tyrion. Soon enough I’ll have the final piece that I need.”

Bran’s gaze is disconcerting, direct and unwavering, and it makes Tyrion feel as if he’s made a mistake without knowing what it is. In all the times he’s served as Hand he’s never found it so _impossible_ to do his job.

“Your Grace?”

“It will all be complete soon. His will is stronger than I’d anticipated, but it won’t be long before I break through.”

Bran relaxes back into his wheelchair, warging into a raven resting atop the walls of the city. Tyrion feels his stomach sink as he watches the King’s eyes roll into the back of his skull and he leaves the room.

* * *

Daenerys stands over her bed, admiring the dresses spread across the sheets that Kinvara gifted her from the market. It’s been so long since she last wore any of her old Meereenese attire, and although she has some favourites from her Westerosi wardrobe, she misses the luxury of simply wearing a pretty dress. She smooths a hand over the gossamer fabrics, admiring the vibrant colours and flattering cuts. For the first time in days, she doesn’t feel mere seconds away from bursting into tears. She might even go so far as to say that she’s almost in a good mood.

She feels a prickle of awareness, as if she’s being watched. Dany turns. Blinks.

Jon Snow’s brown eyes stare back at her from the doorway.

For a moment, she doesn’t even register who she’s looking at. And then—

“ _Daenerys._ ” He breathes her name, reaching out a shaking hand. It’s enough to snap her into movement. Dany half turns, grabbing the knife from her breakfast tray left discarded beside her bed, and holds it out at him as she backs away. Her breaths come in sharp, angry bursts. Jon takes a step towards her, expression wide-open and haunted.

“Stop.”

“Dany—”

“ _Don’t_ call me that, _Queenslayer._ ” The intimate nickname hits her with the strength of a punch to the gut.

Jon’s steps falter and his hand drops to his side. The same hand that drew his knife and buried it in her chest. She forces herself to swallow down the nausea that rises at the thought.

“ _How_ are you here? I thought—”

“That I was dead? My apologies,” she sneers.

“Daenerys, I…” he trails off, eyes damp as he takes another step into the room. Dany hates that the sight of him still manages to break her heart.

“ _Stop moving._ ”

He freezes again, mournful brown eyes trained intently on her. Dany steels her nerves against the unending sadness that she feels as he looks at her, instead letting her anger burn.

“Your brother told you where I was? Is that why you’re here?”

“Dany, _what_ —”

She never thought the northern man a good liar before, but that was just another of his deceptions. Daenerys won’t let him fool her again.

“How long has he known? Did he send you to finish me, is that it?”

“I’m not—”

“Maybe you’ll run me through with Jorah’s sword this time. That would certainly do the trick.”

He finally raises his voice, not to be interrupted again. “Daenerys, I had to. You burned an _entire_ _city_ to the ground.”

Her voices rises to an almost shrill note. “ _I didn’t_ —”

“Jon Snow.”

The pair look towards the doorway at the melodic voice that cuts Dany’s sentence short. Kinvara stands with her hands clasped together, expression as mild as ever.

“We’ve been expecting you.” The remaining priests appear behind her.

“You…knew I was coming?”

“We saw it in the flames as soon as you climbed atop the dragon.”

Dany sucks in a sharp breath. “You rode Drogon?”

“He came to us north of The Wall. We didn’t have a choice, or he’d have roasted us alive.”

Daenerys finally takes note of the hulking wildling man lurking behind Jon, familiar blue eyes watching her closely beneath thick red brows. She wants nothing more than to flee the room, to put herself between her son and these _traitorous men_. “Don’t touch him again.”

She looks back to see Jon’s throat working as he swallows, but he nods jerkily.

“Whatever you’ve come for, you won’t find it here. Inform your king that I have no armies or intentions to return to Westeros. He has nothing to fear from me.”

Jon’s gaze drops to the knife still clutched in her hand. “Bran didn’t send me here, Dany. In fact, I think he tried to…have me killed.”

Daenerys’ eyes shoot to Kinvara, who’s already looking at her. Her lips twist in a small grimace. Dany finally drops her arm.

“Come with me, Jon Snow. We have things to discuss with you.” Kinvara steps back, giving him space to exit the room. Jon looks to Dany, expression sad, unsure. She hates him.

“Go, _Queenslayer_.”

He flinches, as if struck. She relishes in the small victory.

* * *

Jon paces the length of the Great Hall, straining his ears for Daenerys’ voice.

_She’s alive._

He’s still not sure that this is real— that he’s not asleep or drunk or simply hallucinating the whole thing. He pauses, shakes his head, and continues his pacing. From across the room, he feels Tormund’s gaze on him, but can’t bring himself to stop. There’s too much nervous energy brimming inside him and he needs to release it in some way.

Footsteps approach, light and distinctly feminine, and Jon feels his muscles tense.

_Is it her?_

The Red Woman rounds the corner and he slumps, feeling the anxiety drain out of him so quickly that it’s almost painful. Tormund rises from his perch on one of the stone steps, coming to stand beside Jon just as she reaches him.

“My Lord—”

“I’m no Lord.”

Her lips quirk. “Interesting. You’re not a Lord, and Daenerys is not a queen.”

She and Jon stare at each other in silence for a long, tense moment. Jon knows that she’s baiting him but can’t resist asking anyway.

“How long has she been here?”

The priestess shrugs. “Maybe a week.”

“And…you revived her?”

“It may not feel this way, but everything that happened was for a reason.” The Red Woman reaches out a hand and cups his stubble-covered cheek. “The Lord of Light has use for her yet. For the both of you.”

He shuts his eyes, pressing his face into her soft palm for a moment. When he opens them again, Daenerys is watching them over the priestess’ shoulder, face impassive. Jon startles, stepping back instinctively. The Red Woman turns her head, smiling welcomingly at the young Targaryen as she hovers at the entrance of the room.

“And, of course, the Prince that was Promised.”

Jon watches Dany’s entire demeanour change. Her eyes narrow into slits, her shoulders stiffen and her hands clench into fists.

“Kinvara.” Her voice is a low rasp as she speaks the priestess’ name, sharp as if in warning. She doesn’t move from her position as close to the exit as possible, but her tone brooks no argument. Jon frowns.

“The Prince that was Promised? Melisandre mentioned that prophecy to me before she died.”

Dany turns her dark stare to him, lips sucked into a thin line, but Jon can’t stop himself from pressing on.

“Who is it?”

The priestess is now looking intently at Daenerys, hands positioned in front of her as always. She bows her head when Dany subtly shakes her own, placidly excusing herself as she walks briskly from the room. Jon turns his confused gaze to Daenerys, whose eyes are fixed on the door that Kinvara just left through.

“Dany, who is it?”

Her glare is an inferno when she finally meets his eyes. “I’ve warned you about that name.”

There is no jest in her tone. Tormund finally steps into the conversation, moving forward to draw level with Jon.

“The Free Folk have never been out of the North, but here I am, dragged away from my people by a fire breathing dragon to talk to a woman who’s meant to be dead. There’s a reason the fucking thing brought us all this way, and I want to know why.”

Daenerys scowls at him, but the wildling isn’t to be intimidated by the diminutive woman. Despite the sweat beading his forehead, he squares his shoulders beneath his bulky layers of clothes, straightening up to near twice her size. Eventually, Daenerys gives, shoulders slumping as she looks away. Her hands come in front of her to clasp together.

“The priestess…she told me that—” she shakes her head. “It’s impossible, alright?”

“As impossible as you standing here now?” Tormund’s voice takes on an uncharacteristically gentle note as he addresses her.

She looks at him and her eyes are misty with tears. Jon clenches his hands into fists to stop himself reaching out. She wouldn’t appreciate it if he tried. Finally, she nods.

“She thinks that Azor Ahai is…our child.”

There’s a beat where no one speaks, and the silence stretches taut, like the string of a bow. Jon feels like she’s thrown iced water in his face, trying to speak, but sputtering uselessly. “Our—? Does she know about your...curse?”

Dany is shifting uncomfortably now, eyes lowered to the floor and face burning as red as the fabric of Kinvara’s dress. Jon’s never seen her so unsure of herself and it’s more alarming than her vague answers.

“Well, she claims that it’s…broken. And that I’m already pregnant.”

Jon looks down at where her hands are gripped together over her belly and his jaw drops. It’s subtle enough that he may not have noticed before, but he’s known her body enough times to identify the slight swell of her stomach with a child. _Their child._

Beside him, Tormund bursts into raucous laughter.

* * *

Sansa walks the halls of Winterfell, passing through the Great Hall as she moves as quickly as her feet will take her. Her Queensguard flank her on either side as she steps out into the near empty courtyard, footsteps echoing across the stones. Ahead, standing at the gates, a small party of soldiers stand converged, huddled around a figure who’s collapsed into the mud. Sansa reaches them just as the man is helped to his feet, armour scuffed and dirty.

“Podrick,” she breathes, reaching out a hand to brush his cheek once she’s near enough. His eyes are bruised and tired, pale skin marred with a painful-looking blister, deep red scratches and dried blood, and the entire party looks battered, as though they had fought through an entire army to get here.

“Your Grace.”

“Someone get the maester,” she shouts, turning her head wildly to address the soldiers behind her. One of them peels off and disappears back inside. Sansa turns back to the men at the gate, looking them over. “What happened?”

Podrick looks about ready to collapse again, breathing heavily as he leans his full weight against the stone wall of the keep.

“The Eyrie…Knights of the Vale…Sansa, they’re all gone.”

Sansa frowns, breaths suddenly coming more difficult to her as she looks into Podrick’s terrified eyes. “What do you mean? Gone where?”

“They’re dead, Your Grace.” One of his companions says, finally speaking up from behind him. The man looks better than the rest of them, although that isn’t saying much. His breastplate is dented, and his sandy hair is reddened with clotted blood. “Everyone at The Eyrie. The place has been destroyed.”

Sansa swallows around the lump in her throat, barely croaking out a response. “How?”

“A dragon, Your Grace. A dragon burned the place to the ground.”

* * *

Daenerys pulls her knees to her chest, curling in on herself as if she were a young girl hiding from the world. To an extent, she is. Her back rests against the door of her room, as if she could use her body to keep anyone from entering. She knows she’s being a coward, near running from the room after speaking to Jon Snow and slamming closed the door that has remained open since she first arrived, but she’s too wired to think straight.

_He’s here._

Dany had never expected to see Jon Snow’s face again, sure that she’d never return to Westeros. But now he’s here, such a short distance away, and she can barely catch her breath, love wrestling with hatred and betrayal. Her fingers drift to the wound on her chest, still as fresh as the day she awoke. It doesn’t seem to be healing, but despite the press of her fingertips, it doesn’t conjure any pain.

She jumps when someone knocks at the door, holding her breath at the silence that follows. Her nerves spark and the skin of her neck flushes with heat. She knows that it’s him.

“Daenerys.” His voice is quiet, resigned when he finally speaks. She barely resists replying, pressing her lips together and swallowing the words that burn her tongue. “Please open the door.”

She flattens her feet against the cool floor, using the leverage to press herself more firmly against the door. They both know that he knows she’s in here, but she won’t make it easy for him to get in.

Something drags against the door, likely his hand, and she hears shuffling on the other side. Then a soft thud against her back. When he speaks again, his voice is level with her rather than coming from somewhere high above her head; he’s taken a seat on the floor.

“I know that you hate me, Daenerys, I hate myself just as much. But if we’re having a child, don’t you think we should at least talk face to face?”

“So you can try again,” she can’t help but snap, “and kill the babe too?”

“ _Of course not._ How can you—” He cuts himself off, knowing that any protestations will fall on deaf ears. He can’t say that he’d never hurt her, not after what he did in King’s Landing. They fall back into a tense silence that stretches on for minutes. And then, he speaks again, a single quiet word filled with desperation and pain. “Please.”

Dany presses her palm to her mouth, shutting her eyes as she draws in a deep breath to keep from crying. Her traitorous heart still yearns from him, even after he buried a knife in it. His plea further rips open the barely stitched together halves of it. It takes her a moment to compose herself, dropping her hand to her chest as she speaks with a strength and resolve that she doesn’t feel.

“No matter, Jon Snow. Kinvara must be mistaken, because there’s no child. As I told you before, I am barren, so you and your companion are welcome to take your leave.”

Dany hears him moving on the other side again.

“Daenerys, you know that isn’t true.” His voice is a low rumble, invoking her memories of intimate moments aboard her ship and at Winterfell, burrowed beneath furs, the lines of their bare bodies pressed together. “And I can’t leave. You know I can’t leave.”

She drops her head back to thud against the door. Panic claws at her throat and her chest tightens with anxiety.

“Dany, please open the door.”

She presses herself harder into the door, nausea bubbling in her stomach. She has to keep him out.

“Please.”

_Please._

_Dany, please._

She can still picture his face as they stand in a shower of ashes, see his tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks, feel the cold bite of his knife as it slides through her flesh, and the viscous blood filling her lungs as she dies. She used to run hot, like flames coursed through her very veins. Since she awoke, she’s felt nothing like her old self, as if the cut from his blade leached the fire from within her. She doesn’t feel like a dragon anymore, and even her connection with Drogon feels weak and tenuous. _She_ feels weak. Because of him.

He stole everything from her the moment he unsheathed his knife.

* * *

Daario Naharis pulls his sword from the skull of his attacker, kicking the man’s body away to slump against the wall of the alley. Behind him, four of his men fend off more attacks as they try to fight their way out of the ambush.

News of the war in Westeros and Daenerys Targaryen’s assassination at the hands of a bastard king from the North reached Essos just a week ago, but the wealthy lords have wasted no time trying to put the city back to the way it was before the Mother of Dragons came to liberate the slaves. The Second Sons, despite the loss of their queen, remain loyal to Daenerys’ cause and have fought to keep the common folk of the city out of chains.

If he’s honest, Daario cares little for the people of Meereen, and was never too bothered by the practices of slavery on the continent. But he swore an oath to Daenerys, the only woman he’s ever cared about more than himself. For all his bravado, Daario had never loved a woman the way he had the Queen. Her last orders for him were to ensure that the city be run fairly, by leaders chosen by the people. It may not be the last thing he wishes she’d said to him, but as it were, he guards those last precious moments with his life.

His rage and heartbreak bubble up once again. Daario tears through two more men with ease, their blood spraying his face and coating his blade. He vows to see The Queen’s instructions fulfilled in Meereen, that every citizen remains free.

And then he’s going to Westeros. And he’s going to kill a king.

* * *

He sees most everything. The entire world lies before him like the elaborate Painted Table of Dragonstone. He sees the Starks, spread out as they are. Sansa remains in the North. Arya’s ship sails east. He quirks an eyebrow.

_The wrong direction._

He sees Daenerys’ dragon circling the ruins of Valyria. Drogon’s mind is tumultuous as he settles on a crumbling tower. He prods gently at the beast, testing the defences of his will. After the dragon destroyed The Eyrie, the force of his rage expelled The Raven from his head. He dips into the dragon’s subconscious for just a moment, feeling the riot of emotions flow through him. He delves further, looking for an anchor to keep him in the dragon’s mind, a door to force open for easy access to possess the beast’s thoughts. The core of Drogon’s mind burns as bright as fire, drawing The Raven in. He has to touch it. Drogon roars, a terrific sound that shakes the rubble of Valyria and dislodges loose stones from the destroyed towers. It forces The Raven back into the body of Brandon Stark.

He hums lowly, the body of the man reacting with irritation. The Three-Eyed Raven stares blankly ahead. Night has fallen and the darkness is oppressive. There are no candles to illuminate the Small Council Chamber, and the hearth remains cold and unlit. Likely, no one knows that their King is even in here. But the darkness doesn’t bother him—his focus is elsewhere. All he sees is the alluring flames of Drogon’s mind.

He’ll try again soon.

* * *

Daenerys sits atop her bed, pressed into the corner where the mattress meets the wall. Her breaths come rapidly, and her hands shake violently. Her head throbs erratically, as though her heart is beating in her skull. For a moment, visions flash in her mind, deserted stone towers and ruined palaces.

The pressure behind her eyes shifts for a moment. She feels something sharp rip through her head and her vision goes dark.

The halls of the temple echo with her screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how sad is it that Daario ended up being the best of Dany’s relationships on the show? I wasn’t even going to put him in this fic (bc he was The Worst), but he’s needed for later.  
> thank you for all the comments guys, they keep me pushing through despite the fact that I’ve been confined to my bed for the past two weeks. just a quick reminder, though, that I’m not really well-versed in the geography of GOT, and I will be tweaking some of the events of s8 to fit this story. I’ll try to address these if it’s important and keep everyone as in character as possible, but sometimes it’s just to get people to where they need to be.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, I did create an account just for this, okay, don't judge me. I just…I could rant forever about the atrocious turn S8 took and the absolute character assassination of my girl, but honestly what would be the point? I went into the season about 50% sure that Dany would die, so my anger and disgust isn’t because I expected a ‘Disney’ ending for her. What I didn’t expect was for the writers to be so unbelievably inept at formulating a coherent story with consistent character arcs and decent setup/payoff. I have literally never been so shocked at such poor writing. Hats off to the rest of the cast and crew, but the plot was just straight garbage.  
> I haven’t written fanfiction for literally years, and I'm not super knowledgeable about the deep lore or geography of the show/ASOIAF because I just started watching like a year and a half ago, so sorry if this makes no sense, I just had to release my frustration.


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